


The Specialist

by TheRogueHuntress



Series: Smooth Criminals [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BAMF Arthur, Canon-Typical Violence, Doctor Who References, M/M, POV Eames, Post-Inception, Pre-Slash, Protective Arthur, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 16:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15053678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRogueHuntress/pseuds/TheRogueHuntress
Summary: Eames had been imprisoned for three days in a government bunker that the CIA liked to pretend didn’t exist, or so he thought.





	The Specialist

Eames had been imprisoned for three days in a government bunker that the CIA liked to pretend didn’t exist, or so he thought. It was hard to tell when they starved, drugged and tortured him. He’d endured a light beating and some sleep deprivation so far, but word was that they were bringing in a specialist when it became apparent that he wasn’t about to crack open and share his secrets after a little pain.

Eames didn’t like the sound of ‘a specialist’. He tugged on the chains wrapped around his wrists yet again, wishing that at least they’d uncuff him. The shoulder he’d buggered in his uni days playing ruggers ached like billy-o, and his wrists were rubbed raw from the harsh metal.

At least their attempt at extraction hadn’t worked. Eames’ subconscious security was as excellent as ever, and they’d brought in amateurs for the job. They’d given dream sharing a couple tries, then the team had decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

He wondered if keeping this secret was going to end up costing him his life. It was a matter of principle, keeping his mouth shut - there were three people in this world that he wasn’t willing to sell out, and sadly Yusef was one of them. The silly twat had somehow caught the government’s attention with one of his new mixes of Somnacin, and they wanted his location.

A clunk echoed down the corridor outside his cell, the distinct sound of the door to this part of the block being opened. Eames counted the footsteps; at least three, if not four people approached. He tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling, and hoped he wasn’t about to be waterboarded. Taking a breath, he composed himself, focusing on the sound of keys jingling. He still had his pride.

Two guards walked into the room, followed by the man responsible for his imprisonment; Agent Clay. He was unremarkable, apart from the way he’d smiled when Eames had hissed in pain following a particularly nasty punch.

“You’ve got a visitor,” Clay said, that very same grin on his face.

Arthur walked into the room, hair perfectly coiffed, in a suit that looked like it might have well come straight off the runway, a black leather suitcase in hand. Eames blinked. Arthur’s face remained impassive, but his eyes narrowed. 

He was surprised. He hadn’t expected to see Eames here, thank fuck. Arthur was a cold bastard, but he didn’t seem the type to stab a fellow in the back.

“You’ve given me very little information, Philip,” Arthur said, his voice quiet. “Perhaps you’ll enlighten me now that I’m actually here?”

“Ever heard of dream sharing?” Clay asked.

Eames bit back a laugh. He wondered if the CIA knew anything about Arthur’s illicit activities, or if they thought they had him completely in their pocket.

“I’ve heard of it,” Arthur allowed, which Eames thought was probably understatement of the year.

“This prick knows someone who’s been messing around with Somnacin, Yusef Cook. I want his location and the formulation of his latest drug.”

Arthur tilted his head, meeting Eames’ gaze. Eames suspected that Arthur could probably get his hands on both of those things by making a few calls. He looked to be weighing up his options.

“Yusef’s in Kisumu,” Arthur said after a momentary pause.

Eames hung his head. He hoped he wasn’t about to be asked for the formulation because he had no bloody clue what it was. It seemed that perhaps Arthur hadn’t gotten over the Fischer job.

“How the hell would you know that?” Clay muttered.

“Because I bought twelves vials of his latest batch of Somnacin from him two days ago,” Arthur said without hesitation.

Eames snapped his head up to catch the slack, gobsmacked look upon Clay’s face before Arthur sucker punched him. He dove for the nearest guard, jabbing him in the throat and stealing his Beretta. Three double taps later, and the two guards and Clay were slumped on the floor, a hole in each of their hearts and heads.

There was a faint spatter of blood on Arthur’s collar, arterial spray he’d failed to dodge. He frowned at it.

“My dry cleaner’s going to have a coronary,” he muttered.

Eames burst into laughter.

“Only you, darling,” he said. Arthur’s gaze snapped to him and his mouth quirked into half a smile. 

“Still protecting Yusef after he fucked us over?” Arthur asked. He opened his suitcase, which contained several nasty looking items. He pulled out a bottle of water, and then patted down Clay until he found the keys to Eames’ handcuffs. 

“He’s a mate,” Eames said. “And he’s the best chemist I know.”

Arthur strode over to him. “Water or cuffs?”

“Left hand, water, right hand,” Eames said. “Please and thank you.”

“He is a damn good chemist,” Arthur agreed. As he worked on the cuff, he bit his lip in concentration. Eames stared at it and wondered if Arthur would allow him to do the biting instead.

“Done,” Arthur said. He was still holding Eames’ arm up as he pulled the cuff free. Eames flexed and grimaced with pain.

“Easy,” Arthur murmured. He stretched Eames’ arm out and gently rotated it. “It’s going to hurt.” He helped Eames bend it at the elbow, and graciously pretended not to notice the low moans of pain Eames couldn’t hold back.

Eames huffed, trying to regulate his breathing, and licked his dry lips. “I’m not going to be able to hold that water bottle, am I?” he said wryly. 

“Probably not,” Arthur agreed. His expression was devoid of pity as he unscrewed the cap and tipped it so that Eames could drink. The water tasted like nectar after the limited supply they’d given him. He drank half before Arthur stopped him.

“You can have more in a moment, let it settle.”

Eames closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. “Ta, love.”

Arthur didn’t reply, merely set about undoing the lock on his other wrist. 

“Fuck,” Eames hissed as his shoulder was jarred. “Bloody buggering fuck.”

“Old injury?” Arthur guessed. Eames didn’t bother replying as Arthur repeated the same treatment his left arm had been given. He took a shuddering breath. His shoulder was in agony.

“You’re going to have to chop it off,” Eames joked in a shaky voice when he’d mostly gotten a handle on it.

“I don’t have the equipment for that,” Arthur replied dryly. Eames clenched his left fist. That arm at least felt like it was recovering. He reached for the water bottle, gritting his teeth, and took several sips. Arthur watched with a critical eye, and then turned away and began ripping the shirt off Clay.

“You’ll have to settle for a sling.”

Eames allowed Arthur to strap his right arm to his chest, stretching out his left arm all the while.

“I can probably hold a gun,” he advised. “A small one.”

Arthur flashed him a grin and handed over the Beretta with a fresh magazine. He armed himself with the Sig Sauer 556 from the guard he’d throat punched. A chuckle escaped Eames at the thought, but he shook his head when Arthur looked over curiously. 

“I thought for a second there you were seriously considering taking out the pliers and having a crack at me,” Eames said. 

“Nah,” Arthur said. “It would have been the needles.” He smirked. 

Eames pouted. “Oh ho, that is mean. You know I’ve got a phobia of sharp and pointy things.” 

He eyed Arthur’s suitcase, unsurprised to see several needles and vials with long Latin names in there that he didn’t fancy the look of. “What would you have done if it hadn’t been me?”

“Do I torture people for the CIA, is that what you’re asking?” Arthur said bluntly. 

“Well, you’ve certainly got the kit.”

He side-eyed Arthur, who was in the process of dressing himself in one of the guards’ uniforms. The other man didn’t answer for several seconds, and Eames wondered if perhaps he should have saved this conversation for a time when he was able to run away if Arthur decided Eames needed silencing. 

Arthur sighed, an uncharacteristic show of emotion. “Yes, I have before. One of the conditions of leaving the CIA was that I still pull the occasional job for them. They’ve no idea that Arthur Jackson is the same elusive ‘point man’ Arthur of dream sharing, however. It’s a common name.” He stared down at the rifle in his hands. “They’ll know after today, I guess. I’m on their Most Wanted Wall. Saito cleared Dom’s name, but you can’t clear a name that’s not yet been identified.”

He glanced up at Eames. “Same for you. Your original identity is clean, now. Your aliases are not if they’ve not been linked with it.”

It took everything Eames had not to gape at Arthur. “Darling,” he said, speechless. He didn’t know where to begin. He’d not thought anyone had known his birth name, apart from a certain department within MI6 and his mum.

“How did Saito get his hands on my original identity, anyway?”

“I told him,” Arthur replied, obviously unconcerned with Eames’ shock. “He asked, and I thought the benefits outweighed the disadvantages.”

Arthur was finally dressed. He poked his head out the door. “Ready?” 

Eames shook his head, swallowed a grin, and followed Arthur out. “All this for little old me?”

Arthur didn’t reply. Instead, he walked them through the corridors, doing an excellent impression of a mindless security guard. They strode through the first two layers of the building’s security with ease, the keys in Arthur’s pocket unlocking each of the doors. The swipe card called the lift and they both exited on the ground floor.

“Identification?” asked a bored guard in a security booth next to a metal gate. Footage of the corridors they’d walked through was playing on several screens, but in the corner was a rerun of Doctor Who.

“I love that episode!” Eames exclaimed when Arthur tensed, obviously preparing for a shootout. He pocketed the Beretta discreetly and leaned into the station. “That’s the one where Jackie slaps the Doctor, isn’t it?” 

The guard’s eyes widened. “Ah, yes,” he said awkwardly, obviously not expecting to have been called out. Eames scanned the desk, looking for the door release.

“Who’s your favourite Doctor? I’m a Tennant fan myself. Allons-y!”

The guard cracked a smile. “Tom Baker will always be my Doctor.”

“He did have a wonderful scarf,” Eames agreed. “Do you know what I reckon the best part of Doctor Who is?” He pointed at the screen, leaning further into the booth. “There’s always a lot of running to be done.”

He yanked at one of the levers. The door buzzed, clicking open. Arthur, having taken the hint, barrelled through it.

“Jeronimo!” Eames yelled as he followed him. Moments later alarms started blaring, the guard obviously not entirely incompetent. Eames followed Arthur, who surprisingly wasn’t heading for the exit, but instead for a staircase.

“I hope you know what you’re doing. There are lots of cars out there; let’s hotwire one.”

Arthur’s grin was like quicksilver. “I’ve been told I need to dream a little bigger.”

They both ducked as a spray of bullets arched over their heads. Arthur scrambled up the rest of the staircase, Eames hot on his heels. He burst through a set of double doors, onto a landing pad. 

“I’m scared of heights,” Eames hollered but followed Arthur into the helicopter. “Can you even fly?”

Arthur ignored him, but the ring of keys he’d been unlocking doors with had one that fitted into the ignition. He did something to the console that made the rotors begin to spin, then glanced up and fired straight through the window beside him. The window shattered, glass spraying everywhere, and two security guards collapsed to the floor, while others ducked back into the building. 

“Shoot round me,” he snapped, grabbing at the joystick.

The helicopter slowly began to rise. 

Eames fired pot shots, more to provide cover than to actually try to aim. Arthur was digging through a backpack that had been in the back of the ’copter, one hand steering.

“Where did you even get grenades?” Eames asked. He felt more resigned than surprised - it was Arthur, after all.

“My bag,” Arthur said, pulled the pins, and dropped them out the window. They landed on the tarmac and he yanked the joystick to the side, the helicopter shooting forwards and away.

Seconds later, the building exploded behind them. Arthur was grinning wildly, a manic expression in his eyes. It made Eames want to kiss him.

“Well,” Eames said, “thanks for the rescue, darling.”

“Anytime, Mr Eames,” Arthur said. Eames smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> English to American translation:
> 
> "Ruggers" - Rugby  
> "Billy-o" - a lot  
> "Gobsmacked" - shocked  
> "Ta" - thanks
> 
> Capiche? ;)
> 
> NB: would anyone be interested in an alternate that's a lot darker? I.E. what would have happened if Arthur didn't have the hots for Eames.


End file.
